My Daddy's Waltz
by Quillified
Summary: It's moments like these that remind Professor Utonium that his Girls are still just that: girls. Even tough old Buttercup. -This month's entry for LJ's PPG Hub Drabble Contest. Prompt: Uplifting-


He didn't need to have superpowers to know that one of his daughters was crying on the roof.

Professor Utonium heard the initial thump of one of them landing on the roof, himself being occupied with cuddling a picture of his family when the girls were younger while his now-grown-up girls were off at Prom. He put down the picture, grabbed the box of tissues he kept handy nowadays, and went to the attic to hoist himself up.

Her thin shoulders shook, exposed over the trim of a green bodice her sister had picked out, dark hair escaping its careful pinning. He sat down next to her and wordlessly offered the tissue box. She garbled a thanks and mopped up her running makeup.

His initial reaction was to put his arm around her, but lately she hadn't responded well to that; he waited, patient as a fisher, for her to speak. Her sniffles calmed down, her breathing eased, and eventually she released the crushed remnants of snotty tissue gripped in her hands like a talisman.

"Aren't you going to ask me what's wrong?" she asked shakily.

"Only if you want to talk about it," Professor Utonium said simply, lacing his fingers together as their feet kicked in time over the open space of the roof's edge. She reached for another tissue and blew hard enough to projectile-snort her mucous as far as Mojo's observatory (it clanged off with a nice _ping_). She nodded.

"What's up, Buttercup?" the Professor prompted, nudging her ever so slightly with his shoulder. She sniffed again, covering up a half-laugh.

"Mitch is a total douche," she informed him. He nodded thoughtfully. When she didn't elaborate he gave the tiniest of coughs.

"And how did you come to that conclusion?" he asked.

"I guess it's nothing," Buttercup shrugged, "but you know how we kinda-sorta…broke up, or whatever it is kinda-sorta more-than-friends do?"

Professor Utonium knew that at this point it would be wise of him to simply nod and go with it; he was certain that if he tried to put a proper label to his daughter's relationship she would clam up and refuse to talk to him (she always reacted badly to "boyfriend"; he didn't think either of them could handle "friends with benefits", either).

"Yes, I think you told me."

"Well," Buttercup sighed, "it's been a couple of weeks, and we're kind of getting back into friendly territory, so I was thinking that at Prom I'd give him this." She pulled out a ratty leather bracelet. Professor Utonium squinted at it and wished he'd thought to bring his glasses. "It's the match to the bracelet he gave me back in middle school. Supposed to be a sorry gift. I thought it meant something, but after tonight…" she closed her fist around it. The leather creaked.

"He asked Mary to Prom. I thought he was just doing it to piss me off. He showed up with her," Buttercup's voice began wavering again, "and halfway through the first song started making out with her." She put her head in her hands. "And the worst part," she mumbled, "the absolute worst part is that I'm not even supposed to care, you know? I mean, whatever we were is over. Oh-vee-ee-arr, over." Her shoulders rose and fell in a slump. "I'm not even supposed to care."

Professor Utonium found the time appropriate to put his arm around her and draw her close, his thumb rubbing across her shoulder as a fresh upheaval of tears wracked through her. There was a tiny scar across her shoulder blade, pale white and tonight luminous as the moon beat down. He sighed. It was so easy for Townsville to believe that his Girls were indestructible. How could they not, when they could take bullets and bombs and lasers every day, without fail?

But moments like these…moments like these painfully reminded him that his Girls were still just that—teenage girls, who got their hearts broken and were still so young and confused about life and who cared about the people around them. Even Buttercup. Even tough old Buttercup, who could take the most hard knocks and dish 'em out twice as fast, who was brash and crude and funny and who was helplessly in love with her best friend and afraid to admit it.

"Stupid Prom," she sniffed against his side. "I don't even like dancing. Why would I even go?"

Sometimes it happened that Professor Utonium didn't have the answers his daughters wanted. However, that did not mean that he didn't have any tricks up his sleeve. He stood up, helping Buttercup up as he did so. He took her hand, so tiny and powerful and hard and fragile all at once, and spun her around, putting his free hand on her waist. She looked up at him, bewildered, green eyes still bright with tears.

"I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you wanted them to, pumpkin," Professor Utonium said gently. "But, you're still all dressed up, and if it's okay, your old man would like to dance with his daughter."

"I don't wanna," Buttercup mumbled. Professor Utonium carefully lifted her until her bare feet were poised on the tops of his shoes. It once again astounded him how light she was, for someone so strong. She giggled and blinked through a fresh haze of tears, quirking her mouth and holding onto his shoulder. "You're so weird, Professor."

The Professor smiled, long ago learning to take that as a compliment from her as they gently rotated on the rooftop, her dying sobs muffled in his rapidly dampening shirt front and her feet never once slipping as he danced her around. After several minutes Buttercup peeled her face from his shirt and wiped her eyes again, smiling up at her father. For a moment the Professor saw the same five-year-old girl waving goodbye to him as she jetted off to kindergarten, the same ten-year-old who gave him a thumb's-up as she emerged from the wreckage of a monster rampage, the same twelve-year-old who hugged him for buying her the expensive leather jacket she wanted. It melted him just a little bit.

"Thanks, Professor," she said, stepping back. "I'm just gonna…gonna go take a shower. Get cleaned up. Probably go to bed." She patted his arm and descended towards her room, scratching the nape of her neck and pulling out pins in her hair. The Professor retreated to the attic, then into his room, where he sat down on his bed. His hand brushed the picture frame from before. He picked it up, looking at the picture one last time. A drop of wetness plinked off of the surface before he hurriedly dried it and replaced it on his nightstand. He sat for a moment more, then stood up to make hot chocolate for her before she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>AN: Hola! This month's LJ PPG Hub Drabble Contest's theme was "Uplifting", and guess who won? THIS GURL. XD Anyway, so very proud of this one, although the overall premise and plot is overused and cliche. Hope all of you find some form of enjoyment out of this!

And review, won't you please, dears?


End file.
